The Cecil Whig., 1887-07-02
CAPT. LIE MARS STORY.
FROM THE FRENCH.

FROM THE FRENCH.
One bright autumn morning. many
years ago, a funeral procession wound its
way through the streets of st. Sauveur
toward the small but we'll cared-for Gem
etery.
1t was soldiers funeral. A guard
walked beside the flower strewn bier.
Two by two, with bent heads. the sol
diers followed it. The mutfled drums
beat heavily. "Ashes to ashes; dust to
dust" they seemed to say.
Women looked from their windows as
the sad procession marched on.
''IIe is gone at last, the poor Captain
LIE Mar" said one.
"And happy release for him" sighed
another.
Never did brave soldier live with SO
many wounds. such dreadful mutilations.
Yet he was handsome still-a beautiful
face: | saw it in the coffin, said another.
Then they crossed themselves and went
back to work.
One only of those soldiers returned to
the house in which their dead comrade
had dwelt, after the ceremonies were
over. 1t was the Colonel of the regi
ment.
To HIM, in his dying hours, poor lie
Mar had given little note, in which he
had read these words:
"MY OLD FRIEND: When am gone |
desire you t" take from my desk small
packet of manuscript which you will find
there. 1t is the story Of my life. Even
to you | have been reticent, but now
desire you to know all. You may think
me madman when you have read the
whether he is mad or not, but you know
The truth of what | have written is as
absolute to me as that of my own exist
ence.
''Read it and do what you will with it
Yours ever, LIE MAR"
1t was to obtain this legacy that the
Colonel retraced his steps to the home OF
his dead comrade that day. As lie Mar
had said. he knew nothing of his life save
that they had fought together, yet he
had always felt that some mystery sur
rounded him; that there were sorrows in
the past too great to be spoken of.
At the dead of night, in the solitude OF
his own room, Col. Mestayer unrolled
the paper, covered by the words his
friend had written, and read the following
| story:
DEAR MESTAYER: Before became a
| soldier lived with my father in a cha
| teau near Paris. | was his youngest son
and in his way he was fond of me; his
| kindness, however, depended altogether
upon my implicit obedience. Like most
young men, had fallen in love. The OBJ
of my affection was not lady of my owr
rank in life; she was a poor little shol
| girl named Airline.
| | have always thought her the sweetes
thing on earth; certainly her black eyes
and her long, gllttering, waving black
hair were charms any woman might have
envied. | never mentioned Airline al
home, of course; that you quite under
stand Her grandfather was little ole
man who carved wooden brackets for ;
living, and they lived on fourth floor il
a very poor neighborhood.
When | was five and twenty years o
age my father said to me:
"Adolph, it is time for you to marry.
| have selected wife for you. 1t is youns
Mile. Moran"
But have no wish to marry" | said
Il desire it," said my father. Mile
Moran's beauty, position and wealth ren
der her a most eligible wife for you. He
father approves OF you; he will give he
a fine portion, and, if you marry accord
ing to my wishes | will settle suitabl
sum upon you and give you the prett
chateau at st. Sauveur, which you hav
always so much admired. | can affor
to be generous to an obedlent son, but
l am offended with you, what have you?'
"Not a son."
"Ah, well," said he, 81 see you under
stand the situation"
He walked away from me well satisfied
| remained where he had LETT me. aske
myself what should do. l could nc
tell him that | loved some one else. Lov
had nothing to do with his plans.
could not tell him that another loved me
What would he care for little shop gin
Without IA penny in her purse? With hi
consent should never marry her, eve
were there no Mile. Moran on earth.
might resist his authority and marry Al
line. After that, perhaps | might teac
music for livelihood. | knew somethin
of the art. And then, if we two coul
live on a crust in a garret, we might b
happy. Could we? Could |? though
of my own elegant house; of the style i
which had always lived; of the luxurie
that had grown to be necessities to mt
| shuddered.
"Perhaps time will help me-" | said
myself. Il will not anger my father ye
| will remain passive. | will never MARI
Mile. Moran; but if it amuses old peopl
to talk of our betrothal, let them do it.
So salved my conscience. Once {
twice week my father took me formal
to call upon young Mile. Moran. The re:
of the evenings | made love to my littl
Airline She lived with her old CRANE
father on an upper floor in dismal stree
but the room was bright and clean enoug
and she was as pretty and as fresh as
rose.
Together we snpped upon bread an
radishes and claret, which brought wit
me in long bottle. These were delicior
feasts They We're sweetened and fla
ored by love. She did not know that
was rich man. She did not care whethe
| was rich or poor.
Neither of us looked far into the futur
We were young, and the present suffice
US. Whether we whispered together
the little garret, OF went arm in arm
see play; whether we walked throug
the gaslit streets, or wandered on SON
summer holiday ont into the pleasal
country places-we were as happy as I'll
day was long. Meanwhile Vile. Mora
gave me her polite attention when W
met, and made no objection whatever
our parents plans.
Loving Airline as did. | was still
coward You who have known me
battle will, perhaps, think belle mysel
but at one and twenty | was a moral Gov
ard. despise myself as | write, but
have promised to tell the truth. | a
lowed matters to proceed without inte
ruption until at last was formally aflia
ced to Mile Moran. | signed the ma
riage contract with my own hand, an
then felt that could not retrace m
steps. Satan whispered in my ear:
"What does it matter Marry the lad
! Your little shop girl does not know an,
= thing about you. Keep your fortune al
your sweetheart also"
| obeyed his whispers. | managed n
4 little affair SO as to avoid suspicion
n both sides. Reckless of the wrong | W
: . doing to two good and pure young girl
4 | tioated down the stream toward II
|